


Sentiment

by Not_You



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Moran is kind of an alkie, Underage - Freeform, evil fluff, villains need love too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this kinkmeme prompt:</p><p>Moriarty realizes that Holmes and Watson are together.<br/>He has proof, and considers just turning them into the police.</p><p>Then he has a fluffy moment with Moran, and realizes that not even he is that cruel.</p><p>Holmes/Watson. Moriarty/Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

It's really a remarkably imprudent letter, even for a man as romantic as Holmes's pet doctor. Still, it was the recipient's carelessness that placed the thing in Moriarty's hands, and he strokes the paper as he would a cat, smoothing out infinitesimal little wrinkles and reading it over again. Dr. Watson most definitely has a way with words, and while he has never given in to sentiment, he can understand the impulse to keep a letter like this over the heart like a talisman. He had long suspected their attachment, but hadn't been able to discern whether or not it had been consummated. The letter leaves no doubt, and he must admit it paints a compelling picture, the two of them fumbling with each other's clothes, Holmes's stubble on Watson's cheek, all the strength in both of them used in the fight to get closer.

_"Some would call it unhealthy, James. Boys have been sent to institutions for less."_

_"Yes, sir." James doesn't look up from the carpet, doesn't need to see the drawings on his father's desk._

_"I've done my best to be tolerant of this Classical mania of yours, but it has to stop now. No more drawing."_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"A cold bath every morning, and another two hours of lessons. History--" Despite being in trouble already, James can't help a groan of despair, "--and mathematics," his father finishes, a partial reprieve from on high._

_James looks up. "But sir, I've finished all my lessons."_

_"You'll have a tutor, my boy. Now leave me, I have letters to write."_

_"Yes, sir."_

_On Monday morning, James Moriarty is shivering with the miserable, bone-deep cold of an icy bath first thing, and the mathematics tutor is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life._

The paper is equally clean on both sides, obviously lovingly tucked into a pocketbook. It's the stuff the doctor uses for his manuscripts, and Moriarty wonders what other keepsakes have passed between them. Perhaps a pressed flower in one of Watson's books. Holmes can be shockingly sentimental, as witnessed by keeping this prime piece of blackmail material extant on earth. Without intending to, he stands and goes to his own books. Opens a thick treatise on what he now considers schoolboy mathematics, mere algebra and beginning calculus. It's an old volume, and looks odd next to the others, all sleeker and more specific. The reason for its presence is a lock of hair pressed between pages 322 and 323, gold unfaded through the years. About three inches long, it forms a smooth, shining ringlet.

_Mr. Rothchild looks almost like the angels in some of Mother's books, but less perfect and thereby more loveable. His left canine is broken, and this little revelation in his first friendly smile makes James's heart turn over in his chest. He's young, and he has the most perfect hands James has ever seen._

_In retrospect, James supposes the artificial leg was supposed to protect him. Elijah Rothchild's sleek and perfect right leg is wood from the middle his thigh, and James doesn't hesitate to kiss the scarred stump, to love and lave what still sometimes hurts. To him, Elijah isn't beautiful in spite of or because of it. What is, is. White skin and ridged scars, the wicked point of that broken tooth on James's neck. It's all the part of the same thing. Part of the same person suddenly gone and never seen again._

He swallows hard, closing the book and tucking it back into the shelf. He's not usually so nostalgic. His nemesis is a pernicious influence, apparently.

"Professor?"

"Here, Moran." He turns, and smiles to see his right-hand man in one piece. "No trouble, then?"

"None, sir." He leans into the touch when Moriarty cups his face.

"Excellent." He steps into Moran's arms and kisses him softly, purring as strong arms pull him to all that prowling menace and the scent of black powder. Moran sighs, cradling Moriarty as if he's something fragile instead of what he is, nuzzling his throat and nibbling his ear. He shudders, and melts into it for a timeless moment before pulling away. 

"Drinks first, we're civilized men."

"Speak for yourself, Professor," Moran says, grinning like a dog and running his tongue over his teeth. It's a rare joke from him, and Moriarty laughs, handing him a glass of neat whisky. It's another joke between them that's not a joke at all, and Moran tosses back half of of the drink, savagely happy and alive. He tells his master all about the mission, the report a gratifying one. Finished at last, he glances at the professor's desk. "What's this?"

Moriarty looks at him for a long time, then kisses his cheek, carefully burning the letter to anonymous grey ash, watching little flames crawl along the edges and consume his advantage. "Nothing, dearest. Nothing at all."


End file.
